


Turn It Around

by dedougal



Series: Army Training [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, M/M, Military, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows he's in deep trouble when Sergeant Hale is the one left to discipline him. It takes him some time to learn just how deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn It Around

**Author's Note:**

> This is queerley_it_is and nightreveals' fault for inspiring (and shiny_luv's for encouraging). I'm claiming this for bad day on my Cotton Candy bingo. It is fairly unremitting porn with some hurt/comfort thrown in. And a lot of swearing.

It’s fucking hot. Stiles knows exactly how fucking hot it is because there’s a thermometer on the side of the building in front of him. Stiles can’t quite make out the numbers but he can see that the little bastard of a red line is way too close to the top for comfort. Stiles also knows that he deserves to be here, no thanks to fucking Whittemore.

Whittemore is standing at attention beside him and looks like the heat isn’t bothering him at all. Stiles can feel the sweat soaking his t-shirt at the small of his back, at his waistband, at his neck, his motherfucking armpits. He would be better off without a shirt except for the fact he’d be burning up like barbecue chicken. The back of his knees were soaking. Whittemore, the slimy dick, looks like the sun is just bouncy off him and is as crisp as when he pulled on his fatigues this morning.

Stiles swears to Christ that he starts to sweat the minute he steps out of the shower and doesn’t stop until he gets back into the shower again at the end of the day. And standing out here in the midday sun is just compounding the problem. Stiles fixes his eyes on the little red gauge and swears internally. 

It could be minutes or it could be hours later when the Sarge steps out of the cabin that belongs to the staff. Stiles and the rest of his newbie cohort are under canvas but the more permanent members of the training camp are afforded a little more stability. None of that helps as Stiles hears the heavy footsteps across the gravel of the parade ground, crisp and even, as if even the dust doesn’t want to stick to the soles of the Sarge’s boots.

It’s only when he stops in front of Stiles’ nose, that Stiles realizes that it’s Sergeant Hale. Stiles’ stomach does this odd flip that he’d almost become used to. He’s come to realize that it means he’s utterly fucked and not in the good way. Sergeant Hale would be a fucking machine in bed, all perfectly toned muscle and stamina and that stubble would feel so good rubbing against Stiles’ ass and he’d go at it like he wanted perfection and he damn well better get it. Stiles has these daydreams frequently.

Slowly – fucking tantalizingly slowly – Hale peels off his mirrored sunglasses and Stiles is faced with his eyes, the eyes that can glint almost red with suppressed (okay, not that suppressed) fury when Stiles fucks up yet again. The eyes that look almost greener than grass when next to the crisp green of his t-shirt. Thank you, Uncle Sam, for providing Derek Hale with the outfit that makes him look like god’s gift. Stiles feels too tall, too thin and too hot. Again. 

“Whittemore. Corporal Mahealani requests your company.” Jackson straightens imperceptibly before he marches off, ramrod straight, towards the cook tent. Of course he can keep his back that straight – it’s probably the stick in his ass that keeps him upright at all. Stiles, on the other hand, keeps his eyes straight ahead. He knew what looking away might mean. And, of course, he’s looking straight into Sergeant Hale’s eyes.

It’s worse than looking at the mercury rising. This is torture. And Stiles can’t let his eyes flick down to Hale’s mouth or to trace the curve of his cheekbone or anything. He fixes his eyes on the bridge of Hale’s nose and breathes as evenly as he can.

Hale slides the mirrored sunglasses back on and steps back, an even pace. “Drop and don’t stop til I tell you, Stilinski.” His voice is lower, softer and Stiles wouldn’t have believed that Hale had a volume that wasn’t screaming orders but the words still have the same effect. He drops, knees locked, and starts to do what will be an endless amount of push ups without any doubt. His nose has an up close and personal view of Hale’s polished boots. Stiles can see his face in them, hot and red and gross, as he automatically pushes up and down, up and down.

After enough time for his arms to ache but not tremble, Hale starts to speak. “I know it was Whittemore and McCall and I know it had very little to do with you. So why’d you take the blame, Stilinski?”

“Pleasure of your-“ Push. Breath. “Company. Sir.” Stiles feels his hands start to prickle, the grit working its way into his palms.

“You know better, Stilinksi. I work for a fucking living.” Hale didn’t sound too irritated but he didn’t let Stiles up. Stiles could imagine him standing there with his arms folded like they always were. Some guys would have focused on the sculpted biceps but Stiles had a thing for forearms and Hale’s were oddly slender for such a built guy, all corded muscle and tensile strength. All the better to manhandle Stiles with.

“Yes, Sarge.” Stiles tries desperately to sound repentant but he was still stuck on the way Hale’s stomach looked in that tight shirt. It really was kinda fucking obscene, the way it always looked right on the edge of ripping apart at the seams. Stiles wondered if it would be like some Hulk thing, tattered strands framing washboard abs and the shapely pecs he could just make out under the shirt. Or if it would just fall off leaving Hale in his camos and boots. Stiles had a thing for the boots. And imagining the math made his uncountable push ups more bearable.

His arms were definitely into the tremble zone and his t-shirt could probably be used to wash down windows by the time Hale ordered him to his feet. Stiles sways a little, dizzy and probably dehydrated. Hale’s arm shoots out, steadies him, and Stiles waits for the world to end. The camp is quiet – everyone else was marched out after his little confrontation over Whittemore’s bunk. And the fact that he and Scott had quietly rearranged it to trap Whittemore. Which had led to the sort of brawl that attracted attention. 

But it had been so fucking worth it for the look of outrage on Whittemore’s face. Stiles wished he had taken a picture.

“Stilinski?” By the irritation in Hale’s voice, Stiles realizes his name had been called a few times.

“Yeah? Sarge.” Stiles tacks that on. His mouth seems to be moving too slowly, his tongue thick and too large for his mouth.

Hale exhales. “Fucking follow me, Stilinksi.”

 

They do have air conditioning in the permanent cabins. Stiles stands under the blessedly cool air and enjoys while Hale seems to be doing something important in another room. Hopefully stripping. Apparently Stiles’ dick doesn’t give two hoots about rank or seniority or anything. He’s got his eyes shut, which explains why he leans into the touch of the cool cloth at his neck, lets another hand wipe across his face.

“You’re dehydrated. You need to drink.” Hale is close, his breath warm against Stiles’ cheek. This is all too much, too real all of a sudden, and Stiles flickers his eyes open to see Hale standing right beside him and, before he can stop it, his eyes roam free, eying neck and curve of jaw, lips and cheek and finally back to eyes.

Hale seems to have been stopped in his tracks, eyes darting between Stiles’ own eyes and his mouth. Stiles licks his lips, only three-quarters deliberately, because Hale is right, he’s dehydrated, and a little moisture would be fucking great. He tastes salt and maybe a little hint of copper. The hand with the cool cloth at the back of his neck falls away and Stiles shivers, missing it already. 

Hale pulls away, leading Stiles through the empty cabin, heading for a door at the end of the corridor. There’s a bed in the corner, hospital corner perfect, and a desk with a perfectly aligned chair. It’s pretty clear that this is Hale’s room and that he, apparently, has no personality. There’s nothing personal about this place, no photos of family (no photos of girlfriend or wife, Stiles’ treacherous brain points out), not even any books or magazines to relieve the emptiness. And, trust him, this camp is one of the most fucking boring places on the planet.

Hale stills, hands flat on the desk. Then he reaches into a cabinet under it, pulls open a mini-fridge, and drags out a couple of bottles of Gatorade, tossing one at Stiles. Maybe he’s not entirely without personality. Maybe it’s just fucking well hidden.

Stiles obediently drinks and tries not to watch Hale do the same. He fails. Hale had taken off his cap, his sunglasses, and looked younger, his close cropped hair curling slightly without the hat. Suddenly, exhaustion hits Stiles again and Hale jumps forward, catches him, and lowers him to the bed. Stiles has seen Hale out on exercise, stripping weapons, running PT like some kind of insane supernatural creature. But, fuck, the guy’s reflexes really are that fucking amazing.

And he’s strong. Lowered to sit on the bed, Stiles doesn’t object as his soaked shirt is pulled off, his skin clammy and too hot without it. The cool cloth is back, rubbing over his overheated body, making the hair rise on his arms, making his nipples hard and pebbled. Hale doesn’t seem to notice, not at first, but his breathing deepens as he strokes nearer and nearer to Stiles’ waistband. Hale is kneeling between his thighs, looking up and Stiles wants nothing more than to lean forward and cross the acres of space between them, to place a kiss on Hale’s upturned mouth. 

He’s not really fucking cut out for the army, anyway.

Hale doesn’t push him away but doesn’t grab him nearer, not at first. Then it’s as if Stiles didn’t initiate this in the first place. He’s falling backwards, lying on the bed, as Hale crawls on top of him, mouth possessive, tongue forceful as he licks into Stiles’ mouth with the kind of dedication that Hale turns to every task. It’s intimidating, at first, to be the focus of that much intensity. Then it’s just fucking awesome.

Incapable of stopping, Stiles lets his hips punch upwards. It’s then that he realizes Hale is as hard as he is. His next thrust is more deliberate, more planned. He drive his cock against Hale’s suddenly desperate to find out what it looks like, feels like. He’s panting into Hale’s mouth, enjoying the weight of Hale’s chest on his until the heaviness is gone and Hale is kneeling above him and _pulling off his shirt_.

Hale should never wear a shirt. Stiles takes a moment to realize he’s probably gone far enough to be allowed to touch all that glorious smooth skin. Hale’s stomach is as firm and toned and tanned as he’d imagined but there’s no scars, no bumps or contusions. Not even the moles like there are on his own body. Hale is sculpted perfection and he shivers when Stiles runs his rough palms over him, catching and tweaking nipples as his hands skim past. Then Hale is kissing him again, hard and rough, stubble burning worse than the sun had.

Stiles is probably moments away from coming in his pants when Hale pulls back again. He’s got a wicked glint in his eyes, something Stiles had never seen before. He looks naughty, determined, out to take what he wants and damn the consequences. It seems like the perfect opportunity for Stiles to go for his zipper but again those damned reflexes come into play, capturing both Stiles’ hands and pinning them with ease above his head. Stiles gives an obligatory, half-hearted protest, aware that his attempt to break free looks more like seductive writhing, which it mostly is.

Using his free hand, Hale unfastens Stiles’ belt, pushes his fatigues down, his boxers too, leaving his dick free and standing at attention, much like Stiles had been earlier. The reminder sends a shiver down his spine, making him want this. Hale presses Stiles’ wrists to the bed, an order to keep them there, before ducking down to swallow the head of Stiles’ cock, the wet, hot suck of his mouth unexpected and not unwelcome, not in the slightest. Stiles didn’t even move as his pants were peeled down his legs as far as they would go and his knees shoved up. Hale wasn’t rough – he was resolute, firm, single-minded. The brush of a fingertip at Stiles crease evidenced that.

“Lube?” Stiles can barely understand himself but Hale seems to get the sentiment, pulling open his bare nightstand to spill out a tube and a couple of condoms. That’s probably fucking optimistic, considering just how close Stiles is to coming already, but he likes the way the man thinks. Hell, he likes a whole lot more than that. Hale flicks the tube cap and then slick fingers open Stiles up, blunt and thick and damn, damn good. Only the seal of Hale’s mouth on his stops him yelling out just how very good.

The fingers slipping out leave him empty, but then Hale brushes his clean hand across Stiles’ short buzz of hair. “You okay with this, Stilinski?”

Stiles gestured down at his very, very hard and urgent cock. But that’s obviously not enough of an answer for Hale, whose face takes on a quiet desperation too, a vulnerability that wasn’t there before.

“I’m… Fuck. I want it. I want you.” Normally Stiles had trouble biting his tongue, but here he struggles to find the words. “For a long time.”

Hale kisses him before he can embarrass himself more before flipping him over (hot manhandling? Check) and then Stiles holds himself ready while Hale unfastens his pants and slips on a condom. Stiles thought he was ready for the press of cock, but it turns out that fingers and the occasional flashlight don’t exactly measure up to hard, big cock filling him up. There’s an edge of pain that Stiles rides, enjoying burn and pressure and almost too much until it’s just enough.

Hale holds his hips in a grip that Stiles wonders how he’ll explain and then he’s fucking nailing Stiles, hard and fast and it’s good. Wonderful. Great. Brilliant. Stars behind the eyes awesome. Stiles gets a hand on his cock, stripping it quickly, unable to wait. He’s not going to last and he’s tempted to come and let Hale fuck him until he’s hard again. But Stiles holds on, teasing touches, ghosting over the head of his cock, drawing it out until Hale plasters himself against Stiles’ back and fucking growls right into his ear, “Hurry up, Stilinski. Come for me.”

Stiles can’t hold on any longer, muffling the shout he wants to give in Hale’s pillow, striping his hand, his belly, and the previously perfect sheets under him with come. Hale’s not far behind, pushing deeper for a moment, two, until Stiles swears he can feel the triple quick beat of his heart. Then Hale pulls out, leaving him sore and fucking used and all Stiles can do is plant face down on the bed, his hand still trapped under him.

He’s getting a little disenchanted with sticky when Hale wipes him down and rolls him over, tugging up the tangle of pants and boxers from Stiles’ boots. Stiles could quite happily stay here but he can already hear the distant shouts and marching that signals the rest of the camp returning. He’s got mess and evening class and the torture of a hard bench to struggle through before he can succumb to the nap he can feel teasing him.

Hale is sitting watching him as Stile slowly sits up, enjoying the feeling of being fucked. The right kind of fucked. He knows he’s grinning. “Don’t suppose I could persuade you to stay?”

“I don’t know. I could always polish your boots or something.” Stiles let his eyes drift to Hale’s crotch, blatantly offering to polish other things as well.

Hale’s face breaks into a lazy, satisfied grin and he relaxes back. “Go shower, Stilinski.”

As he pulls on his t-shirt, Stiles realises there was one more thing he had to say. “Stiles.”

“What?” Hale’s playing with the cap of the Gatorade.

“My name. If we’re…” Stiles gestures between them then tried to shrug it away. “It’s not a deal breaker.”

Hale lets the silence draw out. Then he nods. “Derek. When we do this.” Stiles swallows and nods. It’s real and the promise of more and that terrifies him and excites him and it’s all pretty damn fucking good. He’s almost out of the door when Derek speaks again. “I can’t wait to hear you yell my name.”

Stiles can live with that.


End file.
